Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  “Yes,” Fat Cat replied, “especially in that uniform. It’s not good to be wandering around in the hills wearing a monkey suit like that.”

  “Do you think we can find another set of pantalones for him?”

  Fat Cat nodded. “I have an extra pair. They’ll be a little big but—”

  “He’ll feel more comfortable.”

  Ortiz couldn’t agree with him more. He couldn’t get out of the uniform fast enough.

  Dax looked down into the valley. “See?”

  Ortiz and Fat Cat followed his finger. A faint wisp of smoke was rising from a corner of the valley.

  “They are already there and waiting,” Dax said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Just as el Condor promised.”

  “What do you think his answer will be?”

  Dax shrugged his shoulders. “Only God knows.”

  “Answer to what?” Ortiz asked.

  Fat Cat looked at him. “El Presidente sent us with an offer of amnesty. If el Condor lays down his arms and comes in to Curatu all is forgiven.”

  “Amnesty for el Condor?” Ortiz shivered and crossed himself. “What makes you think he will believe you?”

  “He knew my father,” Dax said. “He knows I would not be a party to anything but the truth. It took us all this time to locate him. Last week he told us we would have his answer in seven days. We will spend the night here and go down in the morning.”

  “Do you really think el Condor will come in?” Ortiz whispered to Fat Cat as they spread their blankets on the ground.

  “I’ll be better able to answer that tomorrow night.” Fat Cat then added an afterthought which kept Ortiz in a chill all through the night. “If we’re still alive.”

  Dax stretched out on his blanket on his stomach, his chin resting on his crossed forearms. He looked down into the valley. Gradually the day faded into the purple of evening and night sounds began to come to his ears. The faint wavering smoke from the camp of the bandoleros could no longer be seen. Motionlessly he lay there, wrapping the safety of the night around him like a blanket. Everything was different from what he had expected, but that was only because he had thought things had changed.

  It wasn’t until he got home that he realized that nothing ever really changes. Someone had once said that the more things change, the more they are the same. It seemed to him that none of the things that his father had hoped would be achieved had yet been realized. There were still not enough schools, and those there were had quickly been preempted by the officials and minor officials for their own children. That was in Curatu. In the small villages and the countryside there were no schools at all.

  And though around the capital there was a network of paved asphalt roads they went nowhere, ending abruptly in swamps or jungles only a few miles beyond the outskirts. In the mountains and valleys of the back country the bandoleros still struck terror into the hearts of the campesinos.

  There had been a sadness in him those first few weeks he had been home. He was glad that his father was not there to see what he saw. It was not for this his father had spent his days.

  He had gone down to the port and watched the ships come and go and the fishermen return with their catch. In the early hours of the morning he had wandered through the marketplace listening to the cries of the vendors. And everywhere he went he saw the small concrete statues of el Presidente—on the street corners, on each new building, at every pier in the port and entrance to the marketplace. And there was always the red and blue uniform of the soldiers.

  It wasn’t until a week had passed that he became aware that soldiers were following him. It wasn’t until a few days later that he realized that the people looked at him as if he were a stranger, that the sound of his voice had a different accent from their own, that the cut of his clothes was of another society.

  A sense of loneliness and isolation began to possess him. Suddenly the atmosphere of the city began to choke in his throat. It was not until then that he realized he was no longer the same person who had left here years ago. He was something else, someone else. What he was he did not know. Instinctively, hopefully, he left the city for the hacienda in the mountains where he had been born.

  There, where the sky and the earth seemed to stretch forever before him and the mountains thrust their purple, craggy fingers at the sun and stars, he hoped to find again the sense of freedom he had lost. The reason for his being.

  103

  On an afternoon several weeks later he was sitting in the patio looking out toward the mountains when Fat Cat came out of the house and sat down next to him. “It is not the same?”

  Dax picked up a thin cigar and lit it before he answered. “No,” he said, his voice flat and empty.

  “Things are never the same.” Fat Cat looked at Dax shrewdly. “But you must have known that.”

  Dax let out a cloud of blue smoke. “I knew.”

  A tinge of anger came into Fat Cat’s voice. “I thought surely that el Presidente—”

  “Would what?” Dax prompted.

  The anger was strong in Fat Cat’s voice. “Find something for you to do.”

  Dax smiled. “Such as?”

  Fat Cat did not answer.

  “El Presidente has many things on his mind besides me.”

  Fat Cat turned toward the mountains. After a moment he said, “There are men coming on horseback.” He listened again. “Soldiers.”

  Dax got out of his chair and walked to the railing. There was nothing he could see or hear. “How do you know?”

  “Only soldiers’ horses move in step.” He looked at Dax. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  Dax shook his head. There, now he could hear a faint muffled beat of hooves. He turned. Fat Cat was checking his revolver. “I thought you said they were soldiers.”

  Fat Cat shoved the revolver into his belt. “They are soldiers. Still, one stays alive by not taking chances.”

  They stood there until the first red and blue uniform came into sight, then Fat Cat turned. “They will be hot and thirsty. I will see to their refreshment.”

  Dax watched the soldiers approaching. There seemed to be a full squad, about fourteen men, all mounted on the wiry brown mustangs that the army preferred. From his uniform Dax knew that the leader was a captain. But there was another, a slim young officer, though Dax could not distinguish his rank because his uniform bore no insignia. The captain held up a hand and the squad wheeled to a halt just beyond the gate.

  The two officers started up the walk to the house. It wasn’t until then that Dax recognized the younger officer. Despite the slimness of the body, the tightly fitting uniform seemed only to accentuate the young feminine curves. She turned and suddenly her face broke into a familiar grin and she began to run toward him.

  He hurried down the steps to meet her, then suddenly she stopped and stared up at him. It was almost as if she were a little girl again and was suddenly surprised to see how tall her older brother had grown.

  “Dax?” Her voice was husky, almost breathless.

  “Amparo.”

  Still she stood, her eyes searching his face. She seemed to want to speak but no words came. It was he who finally broke the silence. “Take off your hat.”

  “What for?”

  His face broke into a teasing smile. “So I can make up my mind whether to kiss or salute you.”

  Her blue eyes crinkled in an answering grin and with a gesture she flung her hat across the yard. Her blond hair tumbled down almost to her shoulders. “Dax, Dax, I could not believe my eyes. You’re so—so big!” And then she ran into his arms.

  He held her close, feeling the warm femaleness of her. “You’ve grown a little, too, Princesa.”

  She looked up into his face. “How could you leave Curatu without seeing me?”

  “You were in Panama,” he said. “No one seemed to know when you might return.”

  “Daddy knew.”

  Dax’s face clouded. “I only saw el Presidente once. And then only for a f
ew minutes. He was busy.”

  “Daddy’s always very busy.”

  Dax heard the captain clearing his throat behind them. Awkwardly Amparo turned. “Capitán de Ortega, Señor Xenos.”

  The soldier saluted, then stepped forward to take Dax’s outstretched hand. “Your excellency.”

  “Capitán de Ortega. Welcome to my house.”

  There were footsteps on the veranda and Amparo whirled around. “Fat Cat,” she cried, “you haven’t changed at all!”

  Amparo appeared in a white gown at dinner. A diamond-and-emerald necklace was at her throat and matching ear clips accented the blondness of her hair. The candlelight seemed to add a warm ivory tint to her tanned skin.

  Dax smiled at her over coffee. “You’re the first guest I’ve had since my return. You’ll have to stay for a few days. We have much to catch up on.”

  “I’d love to,” she replied, then hesitated and looked at Captain de Ortega.

  “I promised your father we would return tomorrow.”

  Dax glanced at de Ortega. The captain’s face was expressionless as his eyes turned to Amparo.

  “I’m afraid the captain is right,” she said reluctantly.

  Dax didn’t press it. “Come, we shall have a liqueur on the galería.”

  The soldier got up. “I must see to my men, your excellency. And then, if you will permit, I shall turn in. We must be on the road early.”

  Dax nodded. “Of course, Captain.”

  When the soldier left the room, Dax turned to Amparo. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Dax took out one of his thin black cigars.

  “May I have a cigarette?”

  “Excuse me.” Dax pushed the box toward her, then held a light.

  Amparo took a deep drag and leaned back. “Well?”

  He thought for a moment, then took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. “Many things have changed,” he replied reflectively. “It has been a long time.”

  “Ten years is not so long.” Her eyes were large and dark blue. “I haven’t changed, have you?”

  He shook his head. “You have changed, and so have I. Everything has changed.”

  “Some things never change.”

  They sat looking out into the night. The stars twinkled brightly in the velvet blue sky and the fires of the soldiers were like fireflies in the field across the road.

  “Do you always travel with an escort of soldiers?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her. “Why?”

  “Father insists. There is always danger. Thieves. Bandoleros.”

  He grinned wryly. “Still?”

  She nodded seriously. “There are a few who still oppose my father. They refuse to see the good.” She looked at him suddenly, aware of how he must feel. “You’re disappointed, aren’t you? You expected everything to be changed.”

  “In a way I did.”

  “It’s not that easy,” she replied quickly. “I know how you feel. I felt the same after I returned from five years at the university in Mexico. But after I had been home for a while I began to understand.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. You have been away even longer than I, Dax; you’ve forgotten the way it is. Most of our people don’t want change. They want to be given things, not to work for them. Even sending their children to school is too much of an effort.”

  “Maybe it’s because there is no room for them in the schools, and only the children of officials can get in.”

  “It wasn’t like that at first. But after a while they just stopped going.”

  Dax didn’t answer.

  “Father’s biggest concern is to prepare for the war.” He looked at her questioningly.

  “You’ve been abroad. You know a war is coming.”

  “What have we to do with that?” he asked. “Corteguay is not involved.”

  “Not directly, no. But el Presidente says it will be a great opportunity for our country to become self-sustaining. Someone will have to supply them with food.”

  “Wars aren’t fought on bananas and coffee.”

  “He knows that more than three years ago he approached the big cattle ranchers in Argentina. He granted them special concessions to set up operations here. By next year we will have close to a million pounds of beef available for export.”

  Dax knew what concessions el Presidente had probably made. He wondered how much had ended up in his pocket. “And how much meat is available to the campesinos?”

  “You have been away a long time,” Amparo said. “Have you forgotten that campesinos don’t eat beef? They prefer their own foods. Vegetables. Chicken. Pork.”

  “Maybe that’s because beef has always been too expensive.”

  She was suddenly angry. “My father was right—you’re exactly like your father!”

  Dax looked at her. “El Presidente said that?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled suddenly. “That’s one of the nicest things he ever said.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Dax. Dax. I didn’t come here to quarrel with you.”

  “We won’t. I promise.”

  “What are you going to do? You can’t stay here in the hills doing nothing.”

  He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it for a moment then threw it over the railing. It burst into a scatter of sparks. “I’ve thought about that,” he said slowly. “But I don’t see that there’s anything for me to do. I hung around Curatu for almost three weeks. No one offered me anything so I came home.”

  “El Presidente is very hurt that you did not come to talk with him before you left.”

  “How could I? Every time I sent in a request to see him he was too busy.”

  “How could he have known you were planning to leave?”

  “Would it have made any difference? What was I supposed to do? Hang around forever like a dog hoping for a bone?”

  “Come back to Curatu with me and see him.” He looked at her. “Is that your idea or his?” She hesitated a moment. “Mine. He would never admit he is hurt and longs to see you.” Dax looked at her for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No, I think I’ll stay here. When your father wants me he’ll send for me.”

  That had been almost a year ago, and Dax had remained at the hacienda for almost nine months before el Presidente had summoned him. When he was ushered into the office el Presidente threw his arms around him and greeted him as if it had been only yesterday when last they had seen each other.

  “Your father’s greatest ambition,” he said to Dax, “was to see the country united under one government representing all the people equally. It is also mine. This has been almost accomplished. But in Asiento el Condor, the old bandolero, still resists. El Condor knew your father and respected him. He would listen were you to approach him with an offer of amnesty. His participation in the government would be without prejudice.”

  104

  “I am not a politico,” the old bandolero said. “I am only a simple murderer so there is much of which you speak that I do not understand. But this I do know. I would like my son to go to school. To learn to read and write and speak with the smoothness of your tongue. I would not wish for him to spend his life in these hills engaged merely in a struggle for his existence.”

  Dax looked across the fire at el Condor. The old man was seated on the ground, his legs crossed in front of him Indian fashion, the thin cheroot gripped between his lips, his hawklike face tight over the bones. He glanced around at the others. The bandolero’s lieutenants stared back at him expressionlessly. The morning sun glinted on their knives and guns. Behind the old one stood the son of whom he spoke.

  Slim and straight, he stared at Dax, his fourteen-year-old eyes filled with an animal wariness. Like his elders, he had a knife and revolver in his belt.

  Dax turned back to el Condor. “Then you will accept el Presidente’s offer?”

  “I am an old man,” the bandolero replied. “It does not matter much if I die. But I would
not wish my son to die with me.”

  “No one will be harmed. That is the personal guarantee of el Presidente.”

  “I do not desire to become governor of Asiento,” el Condor went on as if he had not heard. “What do I know of government? I just do not want that my son should die.” He took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at it then raked out an ember from the fire and relit it. “I had eight sons and three daughters. They are all dead but this one.”

  “No one will die,” Dax repeated. “El Presidente himself guarantees that.”

  The old man kicked the ember back into the fire. “Diablo Rojo is a fool. Guiterrez will kill us all.”

  Dax stared at the bandolero. The old one’s face was impassive; only the faint glitter in his coal-black eyes betrayed his Indian heritage. He wondered how to explain to a man for whom time did not exist that Guiterrez had long since gone. That this was a new government even though the soldiers wore the same uniform. That it had been many years since Presidente de Cordoba had been Diablo Rojo, a bandolero in the hills, and that he himself had seen Guiterrez captured and taken away to die. Before an answer had taken shape in his mind the old man spoke again.

  “If you will guarantee the life of my son. You personally, swearing on the soul of your sainted father whom we all loved and respected. Then I am prepared to accept Diablo Rojo’s offer.”

  “I swear it.”

  El Condor sighed softly. “Bueno.” He got stiffly to his feet. “Go then to Diablo Rojo and tell him I will meet him in the village of Asiento on the last day of this month. There will be no more war between us.”

  El Presidente waited until the door had closed behind his secretary before he spoke. “You have done well in the mountains.”

  Dax did not answer, for no answer was expected. He looked across the desk at el Presidente. The man seemed never to change. Save for the slight graying of his hair he looked exactly as he had the first time Dax saw him. He was dressed in the uniform of a general but without medals, insignia, or braid. This, he believed, showed him to be a man of the people.